


A Proposal

by weakzen



Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-08-25 02:13:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16652335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weakzen/pseuds/weakzen
Summary: Five letters Aloth sent to the Watcher and one he didn't.





	1. A Letter Sent in 2824

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Pillars Prompts Weekly #28, epistolary narrative

18 Mid Summer, 2824

Lady Seraphina of Caed Nua,

I am writing to let you know the day lilies are in full bloom at the Caerscyn Temple of Woedica in northern Aedyr.

Even half a world away and a few steps down, my lowborn ears have heard tell of your fondness for these flowers. Here, they are also favored by the nobility and the temple priests. The eldest groundskeeper, Greer, claims that some of these lilies have been rooting beneath the statue of the Queen that Was for centuries, reaffirming their devotion to Her every summer when they set the grounds alight with their warm adoration.

They do not bloom alone, however. Throughout the spring, we have nurtured a variety of annual flowers to maturation, as well as tended to the upkeep of the temple's many trees and verdant foliage. We have tilled and toiled, always in service to our Queen, attempting to honor the elegant and dignified beauty of Her righteousness for the upcoming Mid Year celebration.

Aside from the New Year, this holiday is the only day the temple gardens are fully accessible to the public. Many shall visit to recommit to the vows they swore at the beginning of the year. Many shall no doubt enjoy the impeccable blooms and immaculate grounds as they do, but few will fully appreciate the labor that made all of it possible. For that, I cannot blame them. After all, it is difficult to recognize and cultivate gratitude for the result of efforts you are never allowed to see.

I must admit, then, to wondering why the priests—and the nobles who are here so often—seem to share that same lack of appreciation with the commoners.

We are always working, right under their noses ofttimes, as they stroll about the gardens discussing their important affairs. Yet, they never acknowledge us. One must think, at times, that we are nothing more than uncaring flora to them, for all the things they speak of openly when we are a mere hedge away.

My lady, I have been told you are not like other nobles, that you not only till the soil of Caed Nua with your own hands, but that you also value even the lowliest worker in your service and the labor they provide you. If you are ever in this part of Aedyr during the summer season, please stop by the temple and admire the lilies. I am certain the head priest would be delighted to open the grounds to a foreign noble, and we humble gardeners would be honored to have you experience and truly enjoy our creation.

Lastly, I would be remiss if I did not express my admiration for the impressive grounds that encircle your keep, particularly for that magnificent hedge maze and the garden beds dedicated to the cultivation of alchemical ingredients. Not easy work, maintaining those. More than that, however, I have also learned you enjoy the summersweet shrubs growing along the southern wall. I have never been fortunate enough to experience those plants in the flesh, although Greer tells me they smell of spiced honey and that they should be in full bloom as well, this time of year.

I hope their flowers bring a brightness to your day when you pass them for your morning archery, and a smile to your face in the evening when you catch their scent on the air.

Most cordially,

Teàrlach Eywyn


	2. A Letter Sent in 2825

4 Late Spring, 2825

Blessed Lady of Caed Nua,

I hope this letter finds you well, and finds you at all, for that matter.

The conditions in this part of Old Vailia are worse than I'd feared when I set sail from Aedyr to begin this pilgrimage. Many of the villages we pass are abandoned or, at least, they appear that way when we rumble through. Their buildings are scarred with violence and crumble to the point where I worry the very dust kicked up by our footsteps and wagons might topple them. The roads fare similarly, although thankfully they are dry. Where the spring runoff has not washed them away or felled trees, it has pitted them with holes. Worse yet, their poor condition slows our caravan's pace and leaves us vulnerable to greater dangers than sprained ankles or broken wheels.

Once, I have been told, those traveling under the banner of the gods could pass through these woods unscathed, even as mercenary armies battled for the local comtessas within them. Now, for our safety, we must travel in great numbers with armed guards. We are not permitted to talk or light fires at night when we camp. And, when we camp, we sleep in shifts and move on as soon as there is light enough to see.

By the grace of the gods, we have not yet been attacked by the marauders who stalk these woods. Nonetheless, every time it is my turn for watch, and I am cold, blind, and more afraid than I'd care to admit, sometimes I think I can hear footsteps beneath the wind blowing through the trees. When that happens, I clutch my grimoire tighter and pray to Galawain that, if we must be hunted, may our strength be enough to prevail—and then to Berath that, if it is not, may death find us quickly.

I do not want to end up like those we pass lying on the side of the road. Not the dead, but the wounded, those who cry out for help and receive nothing but a blade, and only if they're fortunate enough to be within easy reach of a guard who is feeling charitable.

Our leader and head priest, Maurizio, will not stop to render any aid, not even to children. Too often, he says, caravans who do end up discovering the dying are more hale than expected, and seldom alone. Sadly, he has the missing eye and fingers to prove it. Besides, he adds, if we stop to help everybody on the road, then we'll have no supplies left for the refugees at our destination.

I understand his reasoning, but it chafes at me, and it chafes at a spot already rubbed raw by the comtessas. They both claim ownership of these lands and the sole authority to rule the people living upon them, but neither one will bear the responsibility of actual leadership by riding out to protect their subjects—nor would either one ever admit their culpability in forcing such protection to be necessary in the first place. Their negligence and reckless war are not problems we have the power to solve, Maurizio has reminded me privately. In my heart, I know he is right and that I ought to better heed his advice to keep my eyes forward and focused on the reason for this journey, regardless of how much it pains me to do so.

You, my lady, have remained a salve for this discomfort of mine, at least. It heartens me to remember that not all those on the upper rungs of the social ladder are so careless with those below them. I know you would never allow predators to roam freely upon your lands, nor would you hide behind the safety of your walls and force others to assume the risk of vanquishing them alone. I must thank you for this relief you provide, however unintentional. I shall be praying for the continued health and prosperity of you and your people as our group continues north into the wild and isolated heart of this continent.

Gods be with you,

Cydrel Hensby


	3. A Letter Sent in 2826

1 Autumn Falling, 2826

Lady Seraphina,

The summer rains depleted themselves yesterday, just in time for the beginning of the harvest festival. The ground remains quite saturated, but that hasn't deterred the celebration here, or myself from dodging the large puddles on the road to visit it.

I've always understood the importance of the holiday, but I haven't joined in its actual festivities since I was a child. My father forced our family to attend them every year, not out of any sense of joy or gratitude for the bounty, but to maintain appearances. I was never allowed to remain with my parents once we exchanged pleasantries with everyone he hoped to impress, nor was I allowed to play with any of the other children for fear I'd make a scene or soil my clothes with mud. I spent most of my time alone, quietly picking morsels from the banquet and wandering around, trying to find a dry spot to sit and read somewhere out of sight.

I suppose not a lot has changed in that regard, considering the way I've spent my afternoon.

As to what possessed me to leave the quiet warmth of my room at the inn and venture out here today, I can't quite say. When I arrived at the festival, I walked a circuit around the vendors and games, weaving my way through the noise and haphazard movement of preoccupied people, then immediately beelined down a path between two houses once I'd secured a plate of food. And, because I know the visual will make you laugh, I'll add that I almost stepped in a large pile of deer droppings trying to flee someone who pulled me in to dance. I'm still not sure whether the muck or being trapped in a stranger's sweaty embrace would have been the least horrific outcome.

Regardless, I'm currently resting on a bench swing I found on the edge of town. It hangs from a large banyan tree and overlooks a freshly-harvested field. The sun finally pieced the gloom earlier today and the ground is steaming slightly in response. I'm still close enough to the festivities to hear the wine-drunk laughter and music, but the bird calls are louder. Occasionally, I catch a whiff of roasted meat or fresh bread mingling with the overwhelming scent of damp earth and greenery. In the distance, beneath golden clouds, trees dot the landscape of rolling hills and a road winds towards a dark streak of jungle on the horizon.

The coming sunset promises to be spectacular. At the very least, it won't disappoint. It never has, all of the times I've watched it here before, in the Cythwood.

My home.

It… no longer feels quite like that, though. Home. I've been mulling it over for the whole day, trying to understand why I feel that way, but I've yet to discern a satisfactory answer.

For some reason, this place seems as foreign to me as the Eastern Reach did, back when I first stepped foot in the Dyrwood. I can't quite relax, either. My accent and appearance draw no undue attention, but I find myself unable to let my guard down. Everything around me too, the sounds, the smells, the beautiful landscape unfolding before me, all of it is so painfully familiar, but it invokes no comfort. It's almost as though this sense of familiarity doesn't truly belong to me, that I've merely borrowed it from someone else. Perhaps that's true, in a way. I'm not the same person I was when I first left Aedyr. Perhaps this feeling also comes from being away for too long.

Or perhaps I’m just uneasy because I’m seeing my mother tomorrow for the first time in decades.

I still don't know what I'm going to tell her when she asks what I've been doing. How would one even begin to speak of the things you and I survived? Or the secrets we learned? How could I ever admit to her that I'd willingly joined and aided an organization whose crimes are so numerous and so horrific the only reasonable measure by which to quantify them is to picture an ocean of blood slowly drowning the world? I suppose I could always be forthright, then offer her the reassurance afterward that I'm hunting them down now to make amends, so you needn't worry about me, mother. By the way, the gods aren't real.

I've wanted to confront her about my father for a long time, now. Over the years, I've periodically added items to this list of internal grievances that I've never had the courage to speak aloud. Right now, though, it almost feels like that would be the easier conversation to have. It's useless to speculate how events will unfold with her, I know. I'll just have to wait and see how it goes. If nothing else, I could always talk about you. The Gathbins own quite a bit of the land visible from this very vantage. The family estate itself is less than a week's ride from here, and I've already heard tale from local commoners of the supernatural she-Watcher who justly dispatched the late Lord.

Please, forgive me in advance if I use you to deflect my mother's questions. I hope things are going well for you, and that the harvest this year was a bountiful one for you and your people. Knowing you and how you care for others and the land, I have no doubt that it was an overwhelming success.

Warmest regards,

Aloth Corfiser


End file.
